Radio Silence

I took a little bit of time off from this place. Not from writing, mostly, but from publishing the things that I wrote. I thought about posting every single day that I didn't because I've been writing and posting here for more than three years, and to ignore it for awhile was strange for me. Foreign. Because for three years I have documented my life on these pages. For better or worse, big things and small things, these pages tell the story of my life for the past three years.

Or, rather, most of that story.

Because a big part of that story over the past year is one that I haven't told yet. I've written bits and pieces of it but I haven't published it because it's not quite time yet. I've mentioned it from time to time but I haven't told it all from start to finish because I wasn't ready. I will be though. Soon, I think. Because for better or worse, I document my life here. Partly because I like to, and partly because, after three years, I need to. Because writing here about myself has become a way for me to puzzle through a life that is good and rich and also complex. To process Really Big Things and to document things that are less big, but no less important.

The thousands and thousands of words that I have written here are deeply important to me. And I am proud of them, even, maybe especially, of the hard ones. The ones I had to reach down deep to find and yank out to put on the page.

There will be more words. Lots of them.

But the problem with having so many words written and not sharing them yet is that I found myself unable to share anything else. There has been so much happening but all the words to explain it all get lost somewhere between my brain and my hands and well, radio silence. But the thing about this blog is that it has become a time capsule of sorts. A place where I write not just things that I want to puzzle over, but things that I want to make sure not to forget. 

In about nine weeks, we're having a baby. It's still a little surreal to say those words out loud. The first twenty weeks dragged by in a haze of all-day sickness, tests and a constant, low-level anxiety that something would go wrong, could possibly go wrong, or was wrong already. Then when the tests assured us that everything was fine I graduated to angst over my slowly dwindling wardrobe and the train-wreck that was getting dressed for work every morning, my concern that I would grow out of all of my coats before the longest winter in history finally came to an end, and vigilance over the constant necessity to always be within five minutes of a bathroom. Pregnancy is not for the weak.

But lately, over the past two weeks or so, something else has happened. It's not just that the weather is finally nice enough for the coats that I can't zip or button anymore to no longer be necessary, and it's not because I finally have a maternity wardrobe that makes me feel like a human being when I get dressed in the morning. Those things certainly don't hurt, but it's more than that. Much more.

It's that for the first time since I saw two lines on a test back in October - and then a plus, a pink line, an unequivocal "pregnant" and a simple "yes" after taking one of every test on the shelf at Target - I can think about life after these months without qualifying it. I can say "we're having a baby" without silently adding in my head "unless something bad happens." I can make detailed lists of things we need - my specialty - without worrying that those lists will be somehow unnecessary.

It's not that I don't worry. When you've been where we've been and walked where we've walked I think there is always worry. It's that the worry is almost all crowded out by a sense of the wonder of it all. Not the wonder of pregnancy, exactly, because that part is just rough. But of the knowledge that we were able to do this thing that we thought we wouldn't be able to do and that in a little more than two months there will be a whole new person in the world that we created that is part of each of us. And the understanding that this whole thing is just one big leap of faith and that even though that should terrify me, somehow, at this point, it just doesn't.

And for the first time, I feel wildly grateful, instead of afraid. For the first time. I want to write about it. To document it in words so that one day I can go back and read them and remember how it was. Because this is the beginning of a brand new part of my life and of our lives.

And now, I don't want to miss any part of it.

Three Years of Blogging

I remember, sometime around my sophomore year of college, sitting around a table in one of the cafeterias with some of my friends, one of them a computer science major a year ahead of me. That was the first time I ever heard the word "blog." The computer science major mentioned that he had started one, and that he was using it every day. Back in 2006, "blog" was not a word you heard every day, and we all just looked at him with what I'm sure were confused expressions until he explained what it meant. 

"It's like a diary where I write about my life," he said, "but on the internet." 

Mostly everyone shrugged and went back to whatever it was they were talking about before, well used to the strange goings-on of the computer science arm of our particular group of friends, but I remember being confused, and asking more questions.

"You mean you make your diary public?" I asked. "Like, so anyone who wants to can read it?"

He confirmed that, yes, that was indeed exactly what he was doing, and my mind flashed to the stack of well-used journals on the shelves of my bedroom at home and the one currently hidden under the mattress in my dorm room, and I was suddenly filled with horror at the idea of anyone delving beneath the covers of those books. I barely resisted the urge to bolt from the cafeteria to make sure my journal was still where I left it and that it had not been magically published online while I ate my cafeteria pizza and frozen yogurt.

It seemed antithetical to me, that one would want to publish on the internet the kinds of things that are usually written with pen and paper and buried in a journal never to be read again, and certainly never to be read by anyone except for the writer. I remember thinking I would never, ever do that. I was probably rather smug about it.

And yet, nine years later, here I am. On my blog, on the third anniversary of the day I pressed "publish". And as I go back through my archives of the last three years, I laugh at the girl who blanched in horror at the idea of sharing her life with the masses. Because that's exactly what I do now. I share. A lot.

It didn't begin that way, exactly. Three years ago, when I was just starting out, I wrote about things that amused me. I wrote about books and my family and my new-found love of running, and that's pretty much the way it rolled for awhile. But then it changed. I started digging deeper, telling stories, and connecting with other people who were also writing the stories of their lives online, and I just fell in love with it all.

Blogging taught me to keep my eyes open and to see the stories that are everywhere. It showed me that online friends are as real as in person friends, and through blogging I learned that there is a joy in writing to be read. And more than anything else, I have learned over the past three years that there is an ineffable power in sharing our stories, especially the ones that are hard. Because, as I wrote a few weeks ago, we all have rough paths to walk, and by telling our stories, we allow people who have been there before to walk alongside us, and we hold out our hands to the people behind us, so that we can help show them the way through.

This past year was, admittedly, a tough one for me, and so much of what I wrote, I didn't publish, mostly because I just wasn't ready. But now that I am seeing my way clear of the tough stuff and standing just on the brink of major change as we get ready to welcome a new baby this summer, I am ready to write about both what was, and what is to come. Because all of this - the bad, the good, the downright miraculous - this is all a part of my story, and it is a story that I want to tell and to remember because, for better or for worse, this is me, and there is a power in that.

Three years ago today I started this blog, and on that day I had no idea what I was doing or what it would become. Some days I'm still not sure, but I do know that I want to be here, in this place I made, writing words, and telling stories. So here's to year four. To memories in the past, to major changes ahead, and to blogging my way through it all.

Throwback Thursday: A Deep Dive Into Old Posts

I know that Throwback Thursday is supposed to be for pictures, but I decided to kick things up a notch. Lately I have been going back and reading some older blog posts of mine. I am coming up on my three year blogging anniversary, which barely even seems possible, and yet it is. Over that time, I have written and published almost five hundred posts, which also doesn't seen possible, and yet there they are, right in the archives on the side-bar of my blog.

In going back through some of these old posts I had mixed reactions. Some of them leaned more towards the "oh my god how could I ever have pressed publish on this horror show" side of things, while with other ones I was all "damn girl, you can write." Anyone who blogs on the regular will understand well these dueling reactions.

Every now and then I stumbled upon a post that I completely forgot I had written, and I thought that maybe it was time to give those forgotten ones another chance to shine. So for the next couple of weeks, every Thursday I am going to re-post some of those oldies because, why not?

Today's Throwback Thursday post was published exactly at this time of year in 2012. A presidential election was looming on the horizon and since everything that could possibly be written about was already out there somewhere, the news organizations were casting about for something new to write about that was a little more interesting than more words about Romney's hidden bank accounts or Obama's birth certificate. 

CNN won the game that day when someone who I can only imagine was either drunk or high at the time published an editorial about the way that a woman's menstrual cycle effects her likelihood of voting Democrat or Republican. The responses to the article were immediate and scathing and predictably, CNN removed the editorial from their website, but the damage had already been done.

With mid-term elections less than 2 weeks away, I thought this would be a good one to share today because two years later when it comes to equality and respect for women in this country we are still nowhere, and it looks like we have a ways to go before we get to somewhere.

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Beware of the Female Vote

In the current presidential election, much has been said about the female vote. What it means, who will get it, and how important it is. The candidates have spent millions of dollars courting women voters. At both the Republican and Democratic national conventions the candidates' wives stood before crowded convention floors and spoke about their most important roles: mothers. The candidates themselves spent much time in speeches discussing their own mothers, and praising their wives for the raising of the children. All of this, ostensibly, was to appeal to women across the country watching on TV. To me, it seemed a little like pandering, but political experts say that it works, so what do I know?

Well, according to a recent CNN editorial, it may all be for naught. 

Yesterday, CNN posted an editorial on its website discussing a "scientific" study that suggested that women's votes are influenced by their hormones, and they are more likely to vote for a certain candidate depending on what time of the month it is.

When I managed to get my raging hormones under control long enough to pull my face out of the Ben & Jerry's and read the study, here is what I learned:

Researchers discovered that during a woman's most fertile time of the month (i.e. when estrogen levels are at their highest), single women were more likely to vote for Obama, whereas committed women (i.e. women in relationships, not women who are actually committed, although with all of those hormones racing, who knows?) were more likely to vote for Romney.

The researcher behind this study, Kristina Durante from the University of Texas (a woman, God help us, so, depending on her time of the month when she wrote this study, maybe we can't really trust the information at all), explained that when single women are ovulating, they feel "sexier," and therefore lean more towards liberal views on issues such as abortion, contraception, and marriage equality. However, married women tend to take the opposite viewpoint because they are overcompensating for those pesky hormones that are telling them to have sex with other men. Basically, married, ovulating women will vote for Romney as a way of "convincing themselves that they're not the type to give in to such sexual urges." 

So Romney, you may want to start that matchmaking service right away to get women married before election day. But please, for the love of all that is holy, make sure those women are marrying men. Because if they marry other women, that household will have DOUBLE the hormones coursing about. The horror.

And Obama, turns out that you might want to dial it down on the "let everyone marry, marriage equality" shtick - because married ladies are so less likely to vote for you. 

I mean, I'm married, and I'm surprised that I can even find my WAY to the voting booth when it's that time of the month, much less make an educated decision about a candidate. Because really, all I want to be doing is sitting on the couch in sweatpants, up to my neck in french fries and chocolate, sobbing big fat tears as I watch The Notebook over and over again.

It's pure insanity that women are able to own property, walk the streets unaccompanied, and work for a living amid these raging hormones, much less pull a lever to choose the leader of the free world. 

Look, I get that the debates are over, and election day is just over the horizon, and the cable news networks are running out of things to talk about. But honestly, CNN, can't you do better than this? 

The backlash to this article was instantaneous, prompting CNN to remove the article from its website, stating that "some elements of the story did not meet the editorial standards of CNN." And the author of the story has taken to Twitter to defend herself, tweeting that she "was reporting on a study to be published in a peer-review journal and included skepticism in the story," and that she "did not conduct the study." Great. That's kind of like Todd Akin coming forward now to say he was just explaining the studies that have been conducted regarding pregnancy and rape, but doesn't really believe them.

Any multitude of things can influence the outcome of an election. The weather. Those pesky undecided voters. Spray tans. Debate performance. Hidden videos at $50,000 a plate fundraisers. College transcripts and passport records. Men.

And oh yeah, what about the men?

My biggest problem here, and the biggest problem of the many thousands of furious people who have commented on this CNN story, is the idea that women are emotional, fire-breathing lunatics whereas men are beacons of non-hormonal stability. I can't help but disagree. I mean, have you ever watched a presidential debate? Or been to a football game? Or seen a GoDaddy.com commercial? 

No, men certainly have never let hormonal surges influence their decision-making. It is just us estrogen-laden women whose lady-parts run on overdrive when faced with such disparate choices during our time of the month that can't seem to make up our minds in an educated fashion.

It must be true. The science says so.

My Writing Process: A Blog Hop

Last week I was asked by the lovely and hugely talented Christine Organ to do a blog hop with her. The rules were pretty simple. Answer some questions and write a little bit about my writing process, and what I'm working on right now.

I have gotten to know Christine over the past couple of years in this strange and beautiful blogging world, and I knew right from the start that she was a kindred spirit. Her writing about faith and family, and about keeping our eyes open to the world around us, is gorgeous and is some of my very favorite on the internet. We have shared stories of life, love and tradition, and when I was going through some tough stuff this past spring, she recognized it and over a few days we exchanged a series of e-mails that went a long way towards healing my soul.

There is an incredible magic in meeting someone you connect with so quickly. Someone who understands you and your experiences and who can say "me too" when you tell your secrets; those things that you may not be able to write about yet but that you desperately need to share. Someone who reaches across the vast ether of this digital world and who takes your proverbial hand and tells you that it is ok to share. That your secrets are safe with her.

So thank you, Christine, for your friendship, and for inviting me to be a part of this blog hope.

Here we go...

1. What Am I Working On/Writing?

It has been an interesting few months in my writing world, mostly because it has been an interesting few months in my life. I have a drafts folder littered with sentences, half-formed thoughts, and pieces of blog posts that I am not quite ready to share yet, but hopefully will be one day. Going back and looking over it all a few months removed from some pretty big events has been eye-opening for me, and I hope to put it all into some coherent pieces. I really believe that there is a hugely important lesson for me to learn from this little slice of my life, and I know that the past few months are ones I definitely will not want to forget, even if I am not quite ready to remember them in living color just yet.

The other pretty exciting thing going on is that I recently started writing some pieces for a blog called The Times of Israel. I was a little hesitant at first about sharing my thoughts and feelings on Israel, and my fervent belief in its existence as the Jewish state, but once I started writing, the result was two pieces of which I am incredibly proud. I am in the middle of working on a third that I hope to have finished by the end of the week.

Lastly, I just started working on a complete re-design of my blog. It might take awhile, but I started the process and am really excited to see where it ends up.

2. How Does My Work/Writing Differ From Others of Its Genre?

This is a funny question for me, because I am not so sure that my writing falls into any particular genre. I have written about everything from my love of TV and romance novels, home and family, and friendship and tradition to politics, gun control and current events.

In a way, I see this blog as a collection of memories. A place where I put things that I don't want to forget, and a place where I process things while they are happening to help me sort out and understand the things that sometimes seem so complex and inexplicable.

It's a mixed writing bag, this blog, but that kind of describes me too. I have a lot of pockets and interests, and I think my blog reflects that. I have been at it for almost three years now, and I can say absolutely that I have created something here that I am immensely proud of, and something that I hope to stick with for a long, long time. It will evolve and change as I do, and I am thrilled with that.

3. Why Do I Do What I Do?

I started this blog on a whim one gloomy Friday afternoon when I didn't have anything else to do. What it has become is something I couldn't even have dreamed of. Writing has allowed me to see myself and the world in a very different and satisfying light, and processing my life in words has made that life richer and more meaningful than I ever could have imagined.

I think that is the core reason I do what I do. Because writing - and sharing what I write - satisfies a part of me I didn't know existed. Putting my words and myself out there for others to see and to read is akin to inviting people into my life, to stay awhile. There is a potent magic in sharing stories; in saying "this is me," unapologetically and in connecting with people through writing words.

And through those words, I have met people who I am lucky to call my friends. Some of them I have met in person and some I haven't, but that doesn't make the friendships any less real and true. I have found myself a writing community - a blogging tribe if you will - and it keeps me coming back, each and every day.

4. How Does My Writing Process Work?

I'm not sure I have a real "writing process." Ideas for stories and things to write come to me all the time, usually when I'm in the shower or on a run. I usually open up an e-mail and send myself some half-formed thoughts and sentences, and then when I'm in front of my computer I pull those thoughts and sentences together into a cohesive piece.

I generally need a whole morning and part of the afternoon to write a blog post. I start early in the morning, and come back to it multiple times through the day until it's ready to be published. Small bursts of writing with breaks for other things, like my actual job, work best for me.

There are times, of course, when entire pieces just tumble out of me in no time at all. This piece was one of those. So was this one, this one, this one and this one. But more often than not I need a little time to get my thoughts in the right order and to get the words to cooperate.

It's Always Been Reading and Writing For Me

My parents came to visit me for 4th of July weekend.

Whenever they come to New York they always come with a car full of stuff, mostly the results of the Costco trip my dad takes for me since I rarely find myself with time for that particular errand. This makes me lucky. I know that for sure.

This time, along with a massive bottle of olive oil, a huge container of strawberries and a 6-pack of hearts of romaine, came four boxes of my stuff that had, until this past weekend, been residing in my parent's basement. The boxes were mostly filled with school books from my various high school, college and law school classes, but there were some gems to be found as well.

Like the shoe-box filled with ticket stubs, letters and various other mementos from my college days. Or the pictures of a much younger me with various grandparents. Or the ketubah from my wedding which is actually not so much a gem as it is a really, really important document that I thought I lost, which would be very, very bad.

And buried among all those things was this book I wrote when I was eleven. I had forgotten all about it, and I still can't remember the exact circumstances under which it was written and bound, but when I dug through the boxes, there it was, wedged between a Constitutional Law textbook and a well worn copy of Huckleberry Finn for tenth grade English.

And in the front cover I wrote an inscription to myself, starting off with the phrase "I love to read!" Which I did. And I do.

I don't often think of myself when I was little, but every time I do, I get a comforting reminder of how the me that I am today was grown from the me that I was back then. It's not an accident that I turned out to be exactly who I am. It's been more than twenty years since I wrote that little book and the inscription on the inside cover, but barely anything has changed. It's still reading and writing for me, and I think, somehow, that it always will be.

Two Years of Blogging

Two years ago today, I started this blog on a whim.

It was a Friday and I didn't have anything to do. I was staring out the window at the dreary, misty afternoon, when words started running through my head. This was not, at that point, an unnatural occurrence. For weeks, whenever I had a free moment, I found myself scribbling essays. I had legal pads filled with stories and sentences and thoughts and words, but I didn't know what to do with them until that Friday afternoon.

I created a bare bones blog and in just a few minutes I had emptied my head of the words that had been filling it and, for the very first time, pressed publish. And it was thrilling. It didn't much matter to me that only 10 people read my first post, and that seven of those people were related to me either by blood or by marriage.

Suddenly I had a voice.

At first, this blog was a fun way to write and to be read, if only by a (very) few people. But over the past year, during my second year of blogging, it has turned into something else entirely. Writing on this blog has given me a way to process what is in my head before I am even aware that it is there. It gives me a way to say the things I want to say, when spoken words are too difficult to find or not nearly enough. It helped me through a traumatic move, the end of a friendship I thought would last forever, and other tough stuff. It has been a way to celebrate old friends and best friends, and say thank you to new friends for welcoming us in. It has been a way to mark change, both hugely significant and quietly important. It has been a way to document things I never, ever want to forget. It has been a way to celebrate family, and it has even been a way to celebrate myself, as things change, and as time marches on.

This blog has given me opportunities over the past year that I never could have dreamed of. Things I have written here have won contests and then won again. My words have been read by more people than I ever thought possible. And I had the absolute honor of having the hardest words that ever came out of my head published in a book alongside the most beautifully talented female writers I have ever had the privilege to read.

As I prepared to publish this post - my 377th one - I found myself looking back at my archives and re-reading some of my old posts. I laughed a little and cried a little and cringed a little, but realized that one thing is absolutely true. I am proud of what I have created here in this place, and this blog is a piece of myself that I would be lost without.

Thank you a million times to the incredible writing community I am lucky enough to call my own, and to you all, for coming back day after day to read the words I suddenly can't stop writing.

Here and There

Six days. That's how long it's been since I wrote here on this blog. It's the longest that I have gone without posting here in over a year.

Two weeks. That's how long it's been since I posted a piece at Yeah Write, my beloved writing competition, and the best blogging community around. I've skipped a week here and there if I felt like I was too busy to read all the posts for the week, but rarely two in a row.

And it was strange. Strange not to come here first thing in the morning and post something. Strange not to spend my Tuesdays and Thursdays reading and commenting on the challenge grid posts.

And it was illuminating. Because a little time away made me realize how much I depend on this place. This place where I write words and think thoughts and have friends that are every bit as real to me as the ones I see in person every day.

It's not that I haven't been writing. I have. For two weeks I have had words weaving their way through my head, pushing themselves towards my fingertips, aching to be released onto the screen. And I gave those words their due. I wrote and I wrote and I emptied my head of the thoughts and feelings that had been crowding up my life for a few weeks. And when I finished I felt better, stronger, blessedly empty of the worries and anxiety that had been dogging me lately as I went about my days.

But for the first time in a long time, when the arrow hovered over "publish," I paused. I went back and read over my words again. Moved the arrow to "save," and pressed that instead. Closed out of the blog. I could have written something else, or posted some of the pictures I've been taking lately, but I didn't, because at the time, everything I could possibly write seemed pedestrian, juvenile and infinitely less important than what I had already wrote.

There is a lesson here, of that I am sure. There is something bigger I am supposed to glean, to understand, from this time in my life. And it's coming to me. I'm almost there. I know that when the dust settles and I look back on this time I will look back with clarity. I won't see things through the haze of uncertainty that clouds my days. I will know things that I can't know now. I will smile at how the enormity of it all threatened to swamp me at the time when in retrospect, it was just a moment in time.

But until that day comes, I'll keep writing it, and pressing save.

Because some things are not meant for publishing. Not just yet.

Celebrating The Joy and the Love Of Friendship

I open the book. My eyes scan the table of contents first, looking for my name, not quite sure where I will find it. And then I see. A little thrill rushes through me as I stare at it. Samantha Brinn Merel. First, maiden, married. Partly the name I have had forever, and one I adopted a little over three years ago. It seems strange to see it all in print. Almost like I am looking at someone else's name instead of my own. I stand in my reading room, surrounded by all the books that I can't live without. I scan the brightly colored spines featuring the names of my favorite authors, and suddenly it hits me. 

I'm published. 

It's a dream.

I sit down on the couch with the beautiful book in my hands and I flip to my essay. I settle back against the pillows and I read my own words. Words I have barely been able to go back to since I first wrote the piece months and months ago. Words borne of sadness, loneliness and even a little bit of despair. Words that left me aching and vulnerable and forever changed. Words that describe a friendship that is no longer; a friendship the loss of which has left me with an empty space in my heart that I sometimes feel might never fill up again.

And then I turn back to the beginning of the book and I read other words. Words written by smart and amazingly talented women. Words of love and friendship and sisterhood. Words that describe the way that these relationships shape us and change us and make us who we are. Courageous words. Beautiful words.

I am at once in awe that my essay lives in these pages alongside theirs and lifted up by what all of these essays together have done. And I start to think about my other story. Not the story of friendship loss, but of the ones I am lucky enough to have.

I think about my sisters who are the missing pieces of myself. Who know me all the way through in a way no one else can, and I them. I think about phone calls and e-mails and Facetimes and weekend visits. About shared books, shared recipes and shared secrets. About knowing that they walk beside me no matter where I am. About being so proud of them and the lives and families that they are building. About knowing that none of this will ever change. That we only get closer as we get older, and as time marches on.

And I think about my best friends, the sisters of my heart. I think about the little girls we used to be, the women we are now, and the path we walked together to get here. I think about late night phone calls and early morning e-mails, Tuesday night dinners and Saturday night manicures. I think about seeing them as I walked down the aisle at my wedding, and standing at the end of the aisle watching them walk down at theirs. I think about laughter and tears, joy and sadness. I think about how lucky I am to have these women in my life, and to know that I always will.

Female friendship is a complex beast, full of joy, pain and power, as this book so lovingly shows. And I have experienced it all. But today, in the company of these fifty other women who have opened their hearts and shared their stories, I celebrate the joy and the love that friendship has brought to me.

And I am grateful.

My Story

I sat back in my chair and stared at the computer screen, a little stunned at what had come out of my head.

It was the fastest I had ever written six hundred words. It was probably twenty minutes, but it felt more like two. The words had been rattling around in my brain for weeks, arranging and rearranging themselves, moving in and out of focus, and I just let them stay there, knowing that they would let me know when they were ready.

I was making my way into work last week when the story began writing itself. I got to my office, threw my coat over a chair and fell on my computer. I called up my blog and opened a new post. My fingers started flying over the keyboard, the words gushing out of my head and pouring themselves onto the screen.

As I wrote, a wave of emotion rose up inside me and my eyes blurred with tears born of feelings I hadn't yet let myself feel, anxiety I had pushed aside and doubt that I had stubbornly refused to address.

I had been stoically soldiering on, putting one foot in front of the other, focusing my eyes straight ahead, for fear that a slight deviation from the path I was on would cause a fissure into which those feelings could creep. I was afraid it would knock me off course, and that I would never again be able to find my way.

The ground I had been walking was uneven, riddled with potholes and boulders seemingly too heavy to move, I was sluggish with exhaustion, and my shoulders were sagging under the weight of the load that was mine to carry.

My fingers raced faster and the story took shape. I thought that the sentences were probably terrible, the grammar a mess, but I kept on writing. For the first time, I didn't obsess over the words I was using or how they all fit together. I didn't go back and read over paragraphs once they were finished or sensor myself for fear of what others might think.

This time, I wrote for me. To help myself find some order. To gain some perspective. With each word I wrote I felt stronger. I felt a light fill the dark space inside of me that the words had occupied, and the anxiety that had been my constant companion began to slowly ease.

When the last word was written, through my astonishment I found myself smiling radiantly, filled with the glory of finally owning this story. This piece of my journey that I did not choose, but that I embrace nonetheless.

I saved the essay without making a single change. For a second I thought about pressing "publish" but I didn't. Instead I closed it and tucked it away, not quite ready to share this part of me. This story that is mine, for better or for worse.

This story that I won't - that I can't - ever stop writing.

The HerStories Project: Launch Day

I am a published author. 

Wait, let me say that again. Let me yell it from the rooftops. I am a published author. 

As I mentioned at the beginning of November, a piece I wrote on my blog, of which I am incredibly proud, was chosen as one of the essays to be published in an anthology of essays on female friendship called The HerStories Project: Women Explore The Joy, Pain, and Power of Female Friendships. This book is filled with works on female friendship in its many forms, how it shapes us, changes us, and enriches our lives beyond measure.

Stephanie and Jessica, the editors of the book, have chosen these works with love and care. Every reader will recognize herself in the pages and will find herself, as I did, nodding in agreement, shaking with laughter, and crying tears both happy and sad. I am so honored to have my essay published alongside some truly wonderful writers, and quite literally jumped up and down with glee when my advance copy arrived in the mail two weeks ago.

And today. Today this amazing book is available for sale on Amazon, so you too can read all the beautiful tales of friendship from the heartwarming to the heartbreaking. Click on the Amazon affiliate link below to order your very own copy, and then slip on some comfy clothes, grab a cup of tea, dive right in, and give a moment of thanks for all of the women in your life. I know I will.

This is one of the best things I have ever had the very great privilege to be a part of. To see my name in writing in the pages of a book is indescribable, and to have the connection to the other 49 women whose very moving essays were also included is something I will cherish always.

That's Me!

"Celebrate Me Home"

I am thinking of the words to all the best farewell songs from the American Idol seasons, and a video montage is playing in my head.

Because, alas, I was the first of the Top 13 voted off of Blogger Idol last week.

When a contestant is voted off of American Idol, they sing their farewell. When a contestant is voted off of Blogger Idol they, appropriately, write their farewell.

So this morning, I sat down and wrote my farewell to the competition while Ruben Studdard's Celebrate Me Home wafted out of my computer speakers.

At first I was embarrassed that I was the first one voted out. I thought that maybe I hadn't written a good enough piece, or wasn't taking the competition as seriously as the other 12. So for some time on Friday, as all of the conciliatory Facebook messages came rolling in, I went dark and absorbed the news.

But after I pulled it together I realized that none of what I was thinking was true. I wrote a piece I was proud of and was lucky enough to have been chosen for a competition alongside some writers and bloggers that I admire.

So really, things were good.

So this week I am now officially a Blogger Idol alum, and will follow the competition for the next 11 weeks until one of the other of the top 13 receive their Blogger Idol crown.

And I'm happy.

Because I was number 13 out of more than 200. And that isn't bad at all.

Blogger Idol: Because #writersarethenewrockstars

Confession: I love American Idol.

I was a freshman in college when I sat around with my friends watching as Kelly Clarkson stood under her confetti shower and tearfully sang her coronation song, "A Moment Like This," and I have been hooked ever since. I've sat through the good (anything by Jessica Sanchez), the bad (anything by Jacob Lusk), the downright horror (think, anything by John Stevens or Sanjaya Malakar), and the absolutely transcendent (think, Melinda Doolittle's "My Funny Valentine," Haley Reinhart's "House of the Rising Sun," Adam Lambert's "Mad World," and Candice Glover's "Lovesong).

I love every single thing about it, judges and all, and I will continue watching it until the show breathes its last, dying breath.

So when I heard that there was a writing competition created in the image of American Idol, I had no choice but the check it out. And what I found was rather spectacular.

It's called Blogger Idol, and it goes like this. The contestants are bloggers, who audition by submitting the blog post they think best reflects who they are and what their blog is about. The judges narrow it down to a top twelve, who compete weekly using writing prompts. Every week someone is eliminated until one blogger is left standing.

And what do we win, you might ask? All kinds of fabulous things from Amazon gift cards, to gifts certificates for blog management, Pinterest management and mobile accessories are up for grabs.

Want to join in the fun? Come check out Blogger Idol at http://blogger-idol.com/, on twitter at @bloggeridol, and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/bloggeridol.

I may not have a singing voice to rival Dame Clarkson, but I can write. So here goes nothing.

This is Thirty

On January 3rd, I turned thirty. I wrote a long post on that day, ruminating on all that I had lived and learned in the decade between twenty and thirty, and the ways that I had grown and changed from the time I was a college sophomore. And now, seven months into thirty, I find myself thinking about all the ways that thirty is both different - and very much the same - as twenty-nine.

This is thirty.

Thirty is three decades of living. It is the knowledge that while there is a lot behind me, there is much more - and a lot of the best things - still to come.

Thirty is finding my first gray hair and wondering how long it will be before more follow.

Thirty is three years of marriage. It is good and comfortable with the life that we are building together, but it is also being married to someone who can still surprise in the best way possible. Thirty is looking at my engagement ring daily with a smile and a warm rush of memories, but being equally thrilled at the wedding band that now serves as its mate.

Thirty is thinking about the family that we want to have, and what we want it to look like. It is realizing that we can plan all we want, but that sometimes things are out of our hands. Thirty is being ok with that.

Thirty is owning my first house in the suburbs instead of renting a tiny apartment in Manhattan. It is buying my first car. It is having big closets, a dream kitchen, a deck, and a room meant just for reading. Thirty is settling in to what will hopefully be my forever neighborhood, and joining a synagogue for the very first time. It is meeting new friends and carving a place for ourselves in a community.

Thirty is sleeping late on Saturdays, drinking iced coffee every morning, watching 30 different TV shows regularly, and reading romance novels.

Thirty is running my second half marathon with a third half and also a full on the horizon. It is a long run every Sunday on the Bronx River Pathway and short runs two days a week at sunrise. Thirty is fifteen minutes of yoga in the backyard to greet the day, and wondering if this is the year that I will finally start taking spin classes. Thirty is learning to enjoy exercise, and how to be healthy in a way that lasts forever. Thirty is knowing that I will always have to work at these things, but thirty is also knowing that it's worth it.

Thirty is finally feeling like my career has begun. It is being happy and comfortable in the job that I have and in the work that I'm doing. Thirty is working on this blog, and feeling like I have found my voice. Thirty is a deep need to write my own story and to share my words with the world. It is knowing that there is a book inside of me somewhere, and deciding that the time has come to write it.

Thirty is lucky enough to have a few friends - the soul-deep kind - who know me all the way through. Thirty is knowing that even though my parents and my sisters live far away, I have family here in New York because this is where my friends are. Thirty is knowing that we are lucky to have each other, and that we always will.

Thirty is trading e-mails, recipes, accessories, phone calls and FaceTimes with my sisters. It is being proud of them and the lives and families that they are building. It is knowing that no matter where we live, and how far away we might be, we are each other's missing pieces. Thirty is knowing that this will never change. Thirty is knowing that we only get closer as we get older, and as time marches on.

Thirty is happy.

This is thirty. I am thirty.

What If I Told All My Stories?

Sometimes, this blank screen terrifies me.

The cursor blinks, sometimes mocking, sometimes encouraging.

I think about it as soon as my eyes open in the morning, and I wonder what kind of day it will be.

Will it be a day when the words flow, wild and free? 

Or one where the words are stuck in the endless ether between head and hands?

Or worse, one where there are no words at all?

The words are coming slower lately.

And I know that this is normal. 

That this thing we call writing can be both friend and foe.

But sometimes, somewhere deep down, when the words and ideas refuse to come, I can't help but wonder. 

And worry.

What if I have no more stories left to tell?

A Writing Community and A Family of Writers

My stomach churned as I clicked "add your link" and sat back to wait.

I had complicated feelings about the story. For five hours that day I sat at my computer and took myself back to eighth grade. To those days of fear, anxiety and longing to belong. For five hours I examined memories long buried, and laid myself bare.

For the six months that I had been blogging my writing had been light, but I had begun to think that maybe I had something more. Something important.

I felt the words marinating inside me, their flavors deepening, but not quite ready to be consumed.

But the day they were ready to be written, I knew.

So I sat, and I wrote. And it was different. It wasn't light this time, but a little dark, a little complicated, a little sad.

And when the last line was typed, I went back to read what I had written and I was stunned at what had come out of me.

I sat for a minute, wondering what to do. My first instinct was to leave it in my drafts folder. To save it for me and me alone. But there was a whisper in my head that got louder each time I read back through my story.

Share.

I wanted to share it. I wanted people to read it. Because I thought that, more than anything I had ever written before, these words said "this is me." It was honest, and it was real, and I was proud of it.

So I published it to my blog, but it wasn't quite enough. Because the people who read my blog - my parents, my sisters, my family - knew the story already. I wondered what people who didn't know the story would think. Whether my writing would stand up. Whether they would understand what I felt, what I was trying to do.

I had been lurking at Yeah Write for the summer, reading excellent writing and trying to summon the courage to join the party.

That day, I found it.

So I added my link to the grid. For an hour I waited while my post was moderated. I knew I would get an e-mail when my story was approved, but I still pressed refresh every thirty seconds.

And when my story finally appeared on the grid, a fresh wave of anxiety washed over me.

What if it's not good enough? What if no one likes it?

But then the comments started coming in. Supportive and wonderful comments from other writers. From people who knew. Who understood what it was like to put your words out there and hope for the best.

One that day, the day of my very first Yeah Write post, I found more than my voice. I found a community. A family.

And I am grateful.

Happy, happy 2nd birthday to Yeah Write and to the amazing ladies who keep it running.

Endless thanks for giving us a community and a family to come back to week after week.

To My 16 Year Old Self

I read part of a book recently called What I Know Now: Letters to my Younger Self. This amazing work is a collection of letters penned by famous females to their younger selves. It's filled with strength, humor, and even a touch of sadness, and it got me thinking. It got me thinking about my younger self, and what I would tell that girl if I could talk to her now. If I could reach back through the years and offer some words; some courage, some strength, and some insight about what the future holds.

It’s a worthwhile exercise, really. Because to become our very best selves, I think we have to understand who we were and where we came from. So we can keep moving forward.

So back in time I went. And I reached out to that girl. My 16 year old self. Scared, insecure, uncertain. And I held her tight. And I talked to her. And this is what I said.

Dear Sam,

You don’t have to get up from that bench. The bench where you sit, reading your book, waiting for the bell to ring. You feel like you need to. To socialize, to talk. But the thought of approaching that group of girls by the lockers fills you with a paralyzing fear. You would much rather read your book. It makes you happy. Makes you calm. I understand. It’s ok. You can stay right where you are.

You already know you are not like most of the people around you. You are thoughtful, and introspective rather than loud. You quietly understand things it might take others a lifetime to internalize. You will learn later - much later -  that you are what they call an “introvert.” You don’t like crowds, or big groups. In high school, this is a terrifying fate. It makes you feel different. So painfully different. But it’s ok. Because being an introvert is glorious. You will learn to treasure your own company. To relish the quiet moments where you can regroup and recharge. There is immense creativity in the quiet. And soon, you will learn exactly how to harness it. And you will thrive.

And don't worry about those girls. The popular ones. The ones with whom you don't have much in common. It's ok to not want them as friends. Because you will have amazing friends. Friends who understand you, and help you find your way. You will all lean on each other in good times and bad. You will be together through college and law school. First apartments. Weddings. First jobs. Births. Deaths. You will be silly and serious. They are soul deep friendships. They are your forever friends. As close as family. And just as important.

You will have a family that grows closer each and every day. Your parents are just parents right now, but they will become your twin pillars without whom you could not stand. Your sisters are just sisters right now, but they will become your greatest friends and fiercest allies. In them you will find the missing parts of yourself. You will complete each other in a way that only sisters can. And they will bring two men into your life. Men they love, and who you will love too. Brothers. And your family of five will start to grow. And one day, your youngest sister will introduce you to your great love.

Yes, you will have a great love. A huge, complex, and extraordinary love. In him you will find your mate.  In many ways he will be your opposite. Outgoing where you are quiet. Quick-thinking where you are methodical. But don’t let that scare you. Because you will compliment each other beautifully. Completely. He will be your most treasured companion. You will challenge each other. You will laugh. You will plan. You will hope. You will dream.

And with him you will learn something else. That you are born to nurture. You are fighting it now because it’s not cool. It’s not popular. You think it makes you timid, maybe even a little weak. It doesn't. Embrace it. Treasure it. It is one of your truest gifts. To understand how to care for others. To know instinctively, and in your deepest heart, what the people in your life need and how to offer it is an exquisite miracle. And it’s yours.

Just about a year from now you will read your very first romance novel. The first of many. These books will open up a part of yourself that you didn't even know existed. You will relate to the books. You will learn from them. And in a few years, you will start to write about them. 

And once you start to write, you won't be able to stop. You will write about books and love and friendship and life. You will hunger for the keyboard. To put words to page. Writing will open up new worlds for you. It will satisfy and fulfill you in ways you never experienced or thought possible. To give your words to the world, and for people to read them. And one day, you will write a book of your own. It's not completed yet. As a matter of fact, it's barely started. But you will know in your deepest soul that you will finish it. And it will be your life's greatest accomplishment. Because this is what you are meant to do.

I won't tell you not to worry, because I know you will. Instead, I will tell you to be confident. And to be happy. Because this is life, my girl. Messy. Complex. Satisfying. Beautiful. Your life. My life. Our life.

Just be yourself.

Sam

My Writer's Roots

A little over a year into this blogging gig, I sometime think about what got me here. What is it in my past that has given me the need to put words on paper. To share pieces of myself with the world. Because it is more than just something I want to do. Over the past year, I have come to understand that, for me, writing is more of a necessity. A way to think and to process, to discover and to dream.

The fabulous Erin Margolin has been exploring the idea of "writer's roots" on her blog. Every week she has a blogger guest post about what started them down their writing path, and this week, that blogger is me.

So head on over to her site and read my piece about my writer's roots, my reader's soul, and my freakishly early grasp of the English language.

Thanks for having me, Erin. Stay warm and dry, and enjoy your snow.

Happy Blogaversary to Me!

Monday. In case you missed it, over the weekend there was a huge snowstorm in the Northeast. We were buried under about two feet in my neighborhood on Friday night, and spend much of the rest of the weekend digging out. I love a good snowstorm, and this one was particularly epic. But more about that - with pictures - later in the week.

Because today, I have some rather important business to attend to. Yesterday, was a pretty important day. One I feel compelled to mention, and to write about. On February 10, 2012 - one year and one day ago - I started this blog on a whim. It was a dreary Friday afternoon, and I wasn't busy. I had been toying with the idea of writing seriously for some time, and that rainy Friday seemed as good a time as any. So in the space of an hour, I went from regular person, to blogger.

At first, I didn't have too many readers. My family, of course, but that was about it. But still, I wrote. And the more I wrote, the more I needed to write. The words just poured out of my head, and there always seemed to be more. And I read. I discovered other blogs I liked, and bloggers I respected, and I haunted their sites daily. And reading made me a better writer.

And then, about six months into this blogging gig something happened. This past August I linked up a piece I had written with the Yeah Write weekly challenge, and it was there that I discovered my community. And through them, I truly found my voice. I met other smart and talented writers, and, although we have never met in person, they became my friends. All online, we have learned about each others families, offered a hand and a shoulder in times of challenge, supported each other through Hurricane Sandy (because, amazingly, many of these lovely ladies live mere minutes from me), shared funny blizzard stories, and became a kind of family. And for them, I am incredibly grateful.

So, one year later, here I am. Writing, growing, learning, and changing. Just the way it should be. Over the weekend, I was going through my old posts trying to find a way to sum up the past 365 - now 366 - days. And rather than write more words about what this space means to me, I thought I would do a quick run down of my favorite post or two from each of the past twelve months.

Thanks for sticking with me for a whole year. Looking forward to year two.

February 2012

During my first month, I wrote about coming from a family of women who love books, and I wrote about how I can live anywhere as long as I have my romance novels in tow.

March

I was training for my first half-marathon when I started this blog, and one morning in March I had a completely transcendental run, followed almost immediately by an absolutely disastrous run.

April

In April, I took a trip to Israel, and discovered that Israeli women like romance novels too, and I explained my number one rule when I choose the books I read.

May

I recapped my first half-marathon in May, and I read the book Quiet, by Susan Cane, and wrote about how it completely changed my life.

June

In June, I finally read Fifty Shades of Grey, and to my utter astonishment, I really didn't like it.

July

This month I celebrated David's birthday, and the triumphant return of the Summer Olympics.

August

I wrote my very first post for Yeah Write about some very special shoes, and got a little political on the eve of the Republican National Convention.

September

In September, I wrote my very first fiction, and started thinking about our move away from Manhattan that would take place in a few short months.

October

In October, an article CNN published about how women vote based on their monthly cycles infuriated me, and I said goodbye to my favorite place on earth with a post that still makes me tear up every time I read it.

November

I embarked on a 30 day blogging challenge in November, and wrote about my first date with David, in two parts.

December

My mind was on Newtown and Sandy Hook Elementary School in December, and I wrote about gun control, and the comfort of Jewish tradition.

January

And this past month, I celebrated my thirtieth birthday, and remembered a trip I took to crazy-town just a few years ago.

February 2013

Just last week, I wrote about my new morning routine that I love, and tried my hand at a little more fiction.

An Ode to TV

63 inches of awesome

On this blog, I have used thousands of words in homage to my love of reading, romance novels, and writing. My bookshelves are stacked with hundreds of romance novels, stacks of mysteries, and even the occasional non-fiction for when the mood strikes. I spend many happy hours sitting on the couch in my new family room reading page after page. And I spend many happy (and often frustrating) hours writing words on this blog. And I love all of those. Words have been an important part of me for as long as I can remember and to be able to read them and write them is a privilege for which I am incredibly grateful.

But I am a woman of many interests.

So it is not just reading and writing that consume my extra-curricular hours. There is something else near and dear to me that I don't spend nearly as much time talking about on the pages of this blog. My TV watching habits. And I use the word habit lightly, because what it really is, is a full-blown obsession matched only by my zeal to collect all the books Nora Roberts has ever penned.

I have always loved TV, but I can pinpoint exactly when TV watching stopped being an enjoyable event and started to become a passion complete with charts scheduling my shows, anxiety about missing episodes, and a full slate of programming year round.

It was 2005. The fall. College graduation was behind me, and I was about a month into my first year of law school with all the stress, sleepless nights and competition that entailed. I was living in my law school's dorm in the East Village and the air practically vibrated with intensity and barely concealed nerves. Needless to say, I only lasted a year in the dorm before I moved on to the wonder of the Upper West Side. But it was in that dorm room filled with big, scary books that I began escaping into TV.

For years and years I escaped through books. And during my first year in law school I still did, and regularly. But with all the tension that law school wrought, I needed something more. And I found that something more in a 13 inch television that sat on top of my miniature dresser in an equally miniature bedroom.

It started off innocently, as obsessions often do. I figured law school was no excuse not to keep up with the shows that I already watched, so I made sure that I was always home in time for my four or five regulars. And then one night when I couldn't settle down I discovered back-to-back re-runs of The Nanny, which quickly became appointment television for me. Then I decided to re-watch all the seasons of The West Wing in preparation for the final season that had just begun. And it was fall, so I figured I would surf around and try to pick up some new shows too. Some new shows became approximately eight new shows.

Before long I had far too much TV on my schedule to watch it when it was actually on, so I called Time Warner Cable, and three days later a delightful technician arrived to install my very first DVR box so I could start recording my TV to watch whenever I wanted. And after I started watching with a DVR I noticed a funny thing happen. My grades started to rise in proportion to the amount of TV I was watching, but not the way you think. The more TV I watched, the higher my grades were. I was on to something for sure. So I continued to study and I continued to watch, and I got my very first A+, and I was thrilled with myself.

When I was studying for finals at the end of my second year (and also catching up on the entire First Season of Brothers & Sisters, having just discovered it that spring), two things happened simultaneously to kick my TV habit up a couple of notches. The first was that I discovered TV blogs. Now, not only could I watch my favorite shows, but I could read about them too. I immersed myself in spoilers, and recaps, and news about renewals, cancellations, and new shows on the horizon.

And the second was that I met David, and in him I found my TV equal. I picked up some of his shows, he picked up some of mine, and we discovered some new ones together. In the early stages of our relationship, where most couples would go out, we often stayed in. With take-out, a couch, his giant TV, and each other we had exactly everything we needed. And by the time we got married and moved in together we were watching more than thirty shows between us. There was no way that all this TV could fit on a single DVR, and we decided that when it came to our shows we were absolutely above compromise, so our tiny Manhattan apartment boasted two plasma televisions, each complete with their own DVR. His and hers, and it suited us just fine. We own a house now, but our TV watching habits haven't changed at all. Each and every night you can still find us in front of our shows, sometimes together and sometimes apart, content down to the tips of our toes.  I sometimes wonder how it would have worked had I met someone who didn't share my passion for TV. I think the answer is, it just wouldn't have.

Sometimes people ask me how I have time for it all. A full time job, a blog, running, a serious romance novel habit and a TV obsession. I say, you make time for what's important. I guess I could be spending my time learning more law, or volunteering, or curing cancer or something like that, but Grey's Anatomy and Scandal come back from winter hiatus tonight and I love me some Shonda Rhimes, so I'm going to be pretty busy.

2012: A Year in Review

New Years Eve.

I have spent some time these past few days reading through my blog archives from the past eleven months, trying to find a way to sum up the past year. And I have spent some time reading other bloggers' end of year posts trying to find some inspiration. Some people were posting their favorite blog posts by month. Some were listing all the books they read, or the places they traveled, or their favorite songs. But none of those felt quite right to me, so I decided to do a little bit of everything. Because, well, I am a woman of many interests, and because for me, 2012 included a little bit of everything. And more.

In January I turned 29. My birthday was on a Wednesday, but I celebrated on Saturday night with dinner and my best friends. It felt a little weird to turn 29. Like I should be focused on the fact that this was the last birthday that would have a 2 in front of it, and that 30 was looming in the distance. But I wasn't focused on that. Instead I was focused on the people around me, and how lucky I was to be living this life with them, at any age. And in January I started training for my first half-marathon. I had been running for awhile, and it was time to kick it up. For four months Central Park became my second home, as I circled its loops four times a week and counted the days until the race.

In February I started this blog. It was February 10th. A Friday. It was raw and rainy outside, and I got an idea. An idea for something I wanted to say. I wanted to write about the books I love, and the people I love, and after I wrote my very first sentence of my very first post, the ideas just flowed. And over the past eleven months my blog has taken on a bit of a different flavor, but I am so proud of it, and will be forever grateful for that first spark of inspiration on an otherwise ordinary day.

In March D and I started talking about moving. About leaving our apartment in New York City and venturing out to parts unknown. About buying a house and another car and becoming suburbanites. We looked at our first couple of houses, and thought how it would probably take months and months to find the right one for us. I fumed over the rhetoric about abortion and contraception coming from the federal and state governments, and took to my blog to express my outrage. And in March we boarded a plane late on a Saturday night and flew to Israel for a 10 day vacation on the beaches of Tel Aviv. And in a Tel Aviv mall I discovered that Israeli women love romance novels too, and my heart sang.

In April I spent the last days of Passover in Pittsburgh surrounded by family. I battled a running injury I thought might keep me out of the half marathon that was a mere four weeks away, and we made our first offer on a house we loved, but walked away after a week-long bidding war. And in April I read Nora Roberts' new book The Witness, fell instantly in love with the premier of Shonda Rhimes' new show Scandal, and bid farewell to One Tree Hill, a show that I had been watching since its premier my junior year in high school.

In May I went back to Pittsburgh to run the race. It was an unseasonably hot day that felt more like the end of July than the beginning of May. For three hours I joined thousands of other people to run the streets of the city I love. And there were some dicey miles, but I finished strong. It was my biggest accomplishment to date. And in May I read Nora Roberts' The Last Boyfriend, the incredible book Quiet by Susan Cain, and the less than incredible Fifty Shades of Gray trilogy.

In June we went to see the house that would ultimately be ours. The first time we saw it I couldn't see the potential, but D did, and twenty-four hours of negotiations later, the contracts were being drawn up, and plans were being made, and I started thinking about what it would feel like to live somewhere that wasn't Manhattan. I discovered Bunheads, a new TV show by the creator of Gilmore Girls, one of my favorite shows of all time, and spent some happy Monday nights with the quirky characters of Paradise, CA. And I stayed up until 4am one night just to finish Gillian Flynn's incomparable thriller Gone Girl.

In July we flew to Cleveland for the weekend to visit my sister and brother-in-law and to smother my little niece with love and presents, and I started the torturous process of applying for a mortgage. I watched in horror with the rest of the nation as news broke of a gunman inside a movie theater in Colorado, and I watched with excitement and glee as the Queen of England declared the Games of the 30th Olympiad open. I watched hours and hours of Olympics, and managed to make some time for the miniseries Political Animals, and the delicious debauchery of Bachelor Pad.

In August I suffered from a post-Olympics hangover and entered my very first blogging competition. I was approved for a mortgage. I watched the Republican National Convention and struggled with how I, a pro-choice, pro-marriage equality Republican, could fit into this modern incarnation of the Party. And in August we found out there was an open permit on our house and that our closing would be delayed, and traded a million e-mails with our lawyer and our mortgage company trying to get it sorted out.

In September we took a late night drive to the Jersey Shore to celebrate Labor Day Weekend and I spent a day looking back eleven years. We celebrated the Jewish holidays, and I wrote my first piece of fiction. We closed on our new house, and I started writing about the nostalgia I felt for leaving the home I had known for more than seven years. The twenty-one TV shows that I watch on a regular basis came back from their summer hiatuses, and my DVR was once again filled to capacity.

In October we celebrated our two year wedding anniversary with dinner and dessert on our living room couch. I started counting down to my last run in Central Park, and started thinking about packing boxes, and whether our cable would be hooked up in time so I didn't miss any of my shows. I wrote a post I love about the female vote, and I took my last Central Park run (or so I thought). And in October our move to the new house was delayed by three days as New York City was devastated by Hurricane Sandy and her aftermath.

In November I took my actual last run in Central Park, we moved into our new house and commenced six weeks without a kitchen as our construction was finished, and I entered a challenge to blog every day of the month. The third book in Nora Roberts' Boonsboro Inn trilogy was released, and it saved my sanity during our first real weekend in our house. D built our kitchen cabinets, I started learning the streets of our new neighborhood, and I saw camels on 51st Street on my way to work. I spent Thanksgiving with my family in Pittsburgh, and I celebrated with my best friend when she got engaged. I finally unpacked my romance novel collection, and spent some serious quality time on my new couch in front of the TV.

In December I got my first blogging award, and saw those camels again. The construction on our house finally came to an end, and I started cooking in my brand new kitchen. My heart broke for the Sandy Hook community as they struggled to make sense out of a tragedy, and I grieved alongside one of the families as they laid their little boy to rest. I finally got my running mojo back, and spent a cozy night in our new home in front of the fireplace.

What a year indeed.

Happy New Year.

Here's to 2013.